


Gratitude

by harble



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Choking, Comeplay, Cuckolding, Dirty Talk, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Shameless Smut, Smut, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 16:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harble/pseuds/harble
Summary: John returns back to the gang after a year away, and he finds Abigail has not been spending her nights alone.---It's.. it's about cucking, guys. John's a cuck.





	Gratitude

The night John crawls back into camp after eleven months away, Abigail makes him sleep outside the tent on the cold, packed dirt. He's not particularly surprised. Dutch and Hosea had both cried at different points earlier in the night, Javier toasted him, even Ms. Grimshaw gave him a drunken hug. Abigail, though, he doesn’t expect to warm to his return so quickly.

 

What does surprise him, though, is when Arthur, who stubbornly refused to talked to him or even look his way all night, steps right over him and ducks his way into Abigail’s tent. John almost says something - almost sits up and pushes his way into the tent after him, or yells. Almost does anything but just sit there, clearly awake, and watch Arthur go in. But something stops him. 

 

He listens to Arthur’s feet crunch across the ground, and the low, murmuring rumble of his voice. John can’t make out the words. Abigail answers, even quieter. The cot creaks. Arthur does not come back out again until the morning. John stays up all night, waiting, listening.

 

It continues for weeks like this. Not every night, maybe one out of every five. Always the same - John sleeping outside, across the doorway like a guard dog, Arthur stepping over him without word or acknowledgement, the squeak of the bed frame. He always strains to hear more. He doesn’t know whether he imagines the other sounds, or if they are really there - small shuffles, sighs, the rub of skin on skin.

 

Camp goes back to normal. John starts to run jobs with the men; Jack stops eyeing him so suspiciously and eventually even smiles when he comes round; he and Abigail even make progress. They fight just outside of camp, Abigail screaming like a woman possessed, then they fuck rough on the ground, Abigail’s hand clutched around his throat. 

 

To John, that’s progress, anyway.

 

Two days after that, she invites him into her tent as evening falls, while Hosea watches Jack. They talk then, in hushed tones. _You gonna leave again? We’ve got the boy now. I still care about you._ And eventually - 

 

“What the fuck is goin’ on with you and Morgan?”

 

Her face falls a little, turns hard.

 

“What’s goin’ on between -" She stops short, and sputters a little. “It ain’t no business of yours, John Marston.” He scowls at that, a retort forming on his tongue. She reaches up, pushes up on his chin to close his jaw before he speaks, then presses at the center of his chest with a firm finger. “Unless you want it to be.”

 

It hangs in the air, and John knows it is a threat and a challenge. He’d heard them out of her before - _Can’t take any more John? You’d look so pretty all full up; Do it here, John, and don’t make no noise, or they’ll all hear._ Just the familiar tone of the words is enough to make him harden a little, to make his breath catch in his throat.

 

She smiles slightly, eyeing him up and down.

 

“You want it to be your business?” He still doesn’t speak. “”Cause I ain’t slept with him. Yet.”

 

But she is playing, he can tell. Playing like she might with her hand around his balls, or her boot pressed to his face. Teasing and joking (and lying, perhaps), with an eyebrow raised.

 

Used to be, she didn’t play with him in this particular way - in a way that might hurt deeper than to sting the skin or to burn a blush onto his face. A temporary pain soothed away quickly. But then, that was before he left. The rules might be different now.

 

He thinks about ending the game, about demanding that she talk straight to him. About begging for her forgiveness, about splitting Arthur’s fucking face open and watching him bleed.

 

“You’re lying to me.”

 

“John, John. Would I do that?” Again, her tone is coy. So different than it should be, given the context. “You always did want to watch. This could be your chance.” 

 

_That_ makes his gut clench, and he wants - goddamn, he wants.

 

She pets as his cheek. Then, businesslike: “You need to leave, John. I want Arthur to stay in here tonight.”

 

He stands up, doesn’t bother to argue, and hangs his head like a beat dog. She unbuttons her dress, stripping down easily to her chemise.

 

“Go on, John. We can talk more about it later.”

 

He steps outside and splays out on the ground there, in front of the flap. About ten minutes later, Arthur steps over him.

 

John doesn’t stop him, doesn’t even think to try.

 

—

 

Ten days later, after a couple more chats with Abigail, John is splayed face down in the dirt outside of the tent. She keeps teasing him with that mean look in her eye - _he ain’t never laid a hand on me, John, honest_ \- and it makes his head spin. He’s getting to where he almost likes sleeping on the ground - he isn’t using a bedroll, trying to prove some sort of stupid point.

 

Arthur steps over him and he doesn’t even flinch.

 

He is surprised, though, when a couple seconds later he hears Arthur’s voice, loud and clear, through the fabric.

 

“Tonight? Yeh sure?”

 

Abigail’s voice rings back, “Why’re you questionin’ me?”

 

That makes John smile a little, into the dirt. He wonders what they were debating, but he doesn’t have to wait very long. Arthur opens the flap and presses his boot lightly to the back of his head. He tastes dirt.

 

“Get up, Johnny, we’re going for a ride.”

 

They are the first words Arthur has spoken to him since John’d reappeared, other than yelled commands during robberies.

 

Arthur steps over him, and Abigail follows after. John springs up and trails behind, dusting dirt off of himself as he goes.

 

“What about Jack?”

 

“Susan’s got him. She owes me a couple favors.”

 

Arthur pulls Abigail up onto his horse. John clambers onto the back of his own. They set off at an even trot, Abigail looking back at him through the evening gloom to smile.

 

John doesn’t know quite what’s happening, hasn’t put it all together, but Abigail seems sure as anything where she is, leaning into Arthur’s wide back and looking at John straight in the eyes.

 

A couple minutes into the ride, she begins to mouth something at him. Between the motion of the horses and the darkness, he can’t quite read her lips, but he does catch a few syllables that are suspiciously close to “fuck” and, at the very end, he knows for certain her lips form around the very familiar phrase: “until you cry.”

 

They are riding towards lights, John realizes through his growing panic, towards Loretta, must be. The nearest town to camp is desperately dull, but it has two saloons and three gambling rings, rich on cattle trade as it is. The people speak with an odd, flat sort of drawl that Arthur is familiar with, but it always catches John off guard.

 

Before he knows it, they are hitching their horses side-by-side in front of the cheaper saloon in town, O’Daniels, which is run by an English drunkard who adores Dutch. He yells Arthur’s name as they enter. Arthur stops at the bar, giving Abigail a look. She takes John’s hand and drags him up the stairs, towards the a small door at the end of a hallway. They don’t talk.

 

When the door closes behind him, John flinches.

 

“John, you said you wanted to try it out. You agreed.” Her voice is patient.

 

“Abigail, you ain’t bein’ completely open with me.”

 

She leans her head into her hand and sighs. “John, you been gone for a year. It’ll take some time, I guess.”

 

The room is plain but clean. There is a single chair next to the door, facing the right side of the bed. John sinks into it.

 

“This may’ve been a bad idea.”

 

Abigail lets out a low sound in response, like she’s thinking. She kneels on the ground in front of him and takes his hands in hers. They look at each other long and slow.

 

“John, you gotta decide right now.” But that damn playfulness is back - there’s a light behind her eyes. It’s different than it’s ever was before he left; there’s pain there, where there used to be power. A ghost of what they had.

 

He nods anyway, and she smiles, which makes it worth it already. Just then, there’s a soft knock at the door.

 

“Come on in, Arthur.” 

 

The door creaks as he enters, and he closes it behind him gently. Abigail stands and points at John.

 

“Stay there, Marston. Until I say.”

 

As if on cue, Arthur grabs her, hard, and kisses her. John’s arms are crossed tight over his chest. He feels his heart pick up speed. Abigail opens her mouth, runs hands down his back to his ass. They linger like that for a while, clearly enjoying the feeling and (maybe) the audience. It’s less than John’s been imaging for the last few weeks, listening at the door of the tent, although he supposes there’s much more to come. They move well together, he thinks, as Arthur sits on the bed and Abigail straddles his lap.

 

Practiced, almost.

 

Abigail isn’t making noise. She doesn’t usually, especially not at the beginning. When she’d been a working girl, she’d always had to put on a show, so now she kept it quiet. John knows that for her it meant more.

 

John is breathing heavily now, watching Arthur’s hands slide over her thighs and hips. John’s dick is hard, has been since Abigail kneeled in front of him, but he knows from experience his cock isn’t a reliable source for what’s good for him, or even what he likes. It’s got a mind of its own at times. Times like these, maybe.

 

Although he does like this - he’s pretty sure. Likes the look of Arthur’s hands on her. The bed is a few feet away. He couldn’t touch them if he reached out, but he can see the goosebumps forming along Abigail’s arms and neck in the soft glow of the lamp light. She hangs her head to the side, and Arthur immediately kisses at her exposed neck. His eyes flick up and meet John’s for the first time. It shoots a thrill down his back, straight to his groin.

 

Arthur smiles into her neck, opens his mouth, and bites. Abigail groans, then raises a hand slowly. That’s all it takes for Arthur to draw back immediately.

 

That’s the moment when John knows that Abigail’s been lying to him. That’s when he knows for sure they’ve done this before. Plenty of times. Because Arthur knows her - knows what she means when she wants a pause. Knows what it means, too, when she lays back and opens her legs and starts rubbing at her own breasts. Arthur raises himself to a kneeling position, holding her gaze, and begins to take off his clothes, boots first, then suspenders, then shirt.

 

Abigail likes to watch that sort of thing. And Arthur is blushing under their gaze, John realizes with a start. It’s the first sign of vulnerability he’s noticed out of Arthur for weeks. He’s still scowling, though, even as he opens his pants and reaches a hand in to stroke himself.

 

John’s gripping both sides of the chair now, white knuckled. He hasn’t so much as brushed his cock, and it feels like it might burst. But he can’t, now. There are more important things going on. Because Arthur, so broad and bare, is helping her get her dress off, and she is touching his tanned skin - every inch - with a sort of relish John wishes were directed at him.

 

There’d been plenty of times before when he’d felt the sizzling high that’s beginning to course, just underneath his skin. Abigail knows how to get him there, has always known, from the very beginning.

 

Arthur pulls Abigail’s underclothes up and off her, leaving her bare. He palms her tit and lets out a groan. John is powerless - powerless to stop it. He whimpers desperately, and begins to hump upward into the air.

 

Abigail’s eyes meet his, and she raises a hand and snaps twice - it’s a warning. He swallows dryly and quiets again.

 

Arthur kisses her. He is hovering over her now, hands planted on either side of her head. He slips one down, down, between them, and cups between her legs. She grinds down at that, and John can almost feel it too.

 

“How’s that feel, girl?” It’s low and tender. John doesn’t expect it.

 

Abigail just laughs, and with his free hand, Arthur pinches at her breast.

 

“Feels good, sweetness.” She places both hands on his shoulders and guides him over onto his back.

 

John’s holding his breath, waiting for it. He wants it, needs it to happen. Feels now that if he doesn’t see it, he’ll never be the same; and maybe if he does, he won’t be quite the same anyway.

 

Abigail straddles Arthur’s hips, but doesn’t sink down yet.

 

“Come on then. Kneel there, next to the bed.” It’s directed at John. He scrambles to obey, knocking the chair back into the wall with a loud thud.

 

“Ok, John,” Abigail drops her voice, now that he is close, “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks and I still can’t quite decide.” She pauses to lift Arthur’s cock and sits down onto it with a quiet groan. “Where do I want him to finish?”

 

She starts to move, legs tensing and tits bouncing. John can’t process her question; he’s too gone on watching it, smelling it - God, almost tasting it.

 

“Because,” she pauses to bite her lip as Arthur pulls at a nipple, “he could finish in me. Just so you know he’s allowed what you ain’t. Because he is.” She runs a hand down his chest possessively. “Or, he could come on me, and you, John Marston, could lick it off while you bring me off with your fingers.”

 

John can’t resist after that, he reaches a hand down and brushes himself through denim.He imagines spend leaking out of her, all over her. Someone else's. He lets out a moan, loud enough to make Arthur roll his eyes even as he starts to thrust up with his hips. 

 

“Or,” her voice pauses dangerously at that, “my favorite option might be to have him come on your face.”

 

Arthur slows a little, and John’s hand stops.

 

“Arthur loves a good suck job, John. But poor man, you know I’m not too fond of giving them. And I told him what a sweet mouth you got.” Abigail reaches down to touch herself then, and tilts her head back. Dutifully, Arthur replaces her hand with his.

 

“Come here, John.” She reaches out a hand and grabs a fistful of his black hair. She increases her pace on Arthur. “Do you see all this? You see how much I love his dick? How I don’t need you to feel this way?” It hurts, how she’s pulling his head up and towards her, how he has to jerk up slightly with her motions. “How about you show a little gratitude?” She pulls on his hair for emphasis. “Say thank you. Tell Arthur thank you for fucking me while you were gone.”

 

If John thought he couldn’t get more embarrassed, he’d clearly been wrong. His face burns at her words. He wants to cover it, to duck his head and curl into a ball, but he can't with Abigail pulling as she is. She jerks him so he has to look at Arthur, who seems smug and somewhat lost in the fuck, groaning at each thrust. Both increase their pace, and the slap of skin on skin becomes a rhythm, not too different from the one beating in John’s chest - frantic, fast, and uneven.

 

He loves her. The feeling hits him like one of her slaps to the face might. She's holding him up by the hair and riding Arthur with abandon and, Christ, if she doesn't look perfect. And he's missed her. Missed this, and so much else.

 

“Well?” She tugs again, bringing him back to reality.

 

“Th-thank you,” he mumbles out, dropping his gaze.

 

“For what, John. Use your words.”

 

“Thank you for fucking Abigail while I was gone.”

 

Just then, she reaches climax and falls forward slightly, panting, legs shaking.

 

There’s not much down time for her, not ever. But especially not in situations like these. Quicker than John can even recover from watching it, she’s off of Arthur and motioning for him to sit up on the edge of the bed.

 

“You okay?” She’s asking Arthur, but John realizes too late. He's already nodding, and she scoffs at him before turning back to Arthur. “Is this okay with  _you_?”

 

Arthur looks at her for a moment, then lets out a quiet “Sure.” Abigail grabs his hand and brings it to John’s head. For a split second as they shift, John can smell whiskey rolling off of him. He realizes Arthur must have taken some shots at the bar below, to calm his nerves. The thought makes him smile; he doesn't know why. 

 

Abigail’s voice cuts through the silence.

 

“You’ve just got to show him what you want. He’s eager to please, promise.”

 

Arthur takes a shuddering breath in, and tilts John’s head up so that their eyes meet. John is a mess at that moment - he can’t really think looking into those blue eyes, can’t think past the terrible, sweet bubble of shame that crowds his thoughts - but he knows what to do with a cock. He bends his head down to take it before Arthur is even pushing him in that direction.

 

He earns a loud groan at that. It’s more than he’s gotten all night, and he almost comes off in his pants from the sound of approval alone.

 

Almost, but not quite.

 

He starts to slide, up and down, reaches a tentative hand up to work at the base. He glances up, not sure what he’s hoping to see. They are kissing again, slow and tender. Arthur’s free hand is skimming her sides.

 

He tries to curse, but around the cock in his mouth it comes out garbled and wet. They both look down at him.

 

“Oh, John, look at you.” She strokes at his face, lingering around where his mouth is stretched at the corners. “Sometimes I think this is all you’re good for. You certainly ain’t much of a man.” Abigail sounds loving, adoring even. She grabs his hair and pulls him hard to the very base of Arthur’s cock. “You’re always such a good whore for me, darling. I just don’t know what I’ll do with you. Is this all you’re good for, John?”

 

He nods with the cock still in his mouth.

 

“Say thank you, John.”

  
He moves to slide off, put she pushes him back down until he gags.

 

“There is fine. Tell Arthur thank you for putting his cock down your whore throat.”

 

Without hesitation, John meets Arthur’s eyes. He can’t form the words, but Abigail looks satisfied at the garbled sound he makes, spit dribbling from the sides of his mouth, as he tries to repeat the sentence.

 

Arthur is breathing heavy now, looking from John to Abigail and back, like he can’t quite make up his mind what is happening or how he should feel. He pulls John up and all the way down again. John gags hard and whines around it, and next moment, Arthur is releasing in waves on his face and hair. Arthur takes special care that the last of it lands in his wet, open mouth.

 

John doesn’t need to be told this time. He swallows, then, “Thank you for coming on my face.” It’s raspy and weak and fucked out, but clear.

 

Abigail is smiling, and John knows it is because tears are gathering in his eyes, some already having slipped down his face. That’s the real benefit of him sucking cock for her. The tears. He blinks a little, making sure the last of them run down his cheeks, through the smeared spend.

 

She shifts back onto her elbows and positions herself near the edge of the bed.

 

“John, can you bring me off please?” He nods. “And yourself as well. After me.”

 

He’s leaning forward even before she spreads her legs. He swipes a tongue over her. It’s been so long, but the feel of her is the same. He groans and rubs his face into her. He begins something very familiar to him - light kisses on the thighs, heavier working inward, soft swipes near the top, fucking her on his tongue for a while - all colored with the distinctly unfamiliar taste of Arthur’s spend, rubbed from his face onto her cunt.

 

Arthur seems to be perfectly still, just watching, but once Abigail starts to sigh and grind down in earnest, he lazily shifts to suck at one nipple, then the other. John’s circling near the top of her with his fingers while lapping at her entrance.

 

She’s starting to lose herself in it - then she says it.

 

“Oh fuck, Arthur.” She grabs at John’s hair, hard enough to hurt, and pulls him deeper into her. “Oh, yes, Arthur, that feels so good. Like that.”

 

That’s enough for John. He’s undone his jeans somewhere in the chaos. He sticks his left hand in and ruts against it, desperate, as Abigail comes around his tongue. She breathes that name over and over, like a spell, as she comes off her high.

 

Abigail is still gasping for air when John finishes against his hand. He makes a pathetic sound, high and raw, and comes hard, harder and better than he ever remembers.

 

They don’t laugh or scoff at him then. Whatever the mood was - that dangerous, joking, bitter mood Abigail has been in - whatever it was, it seems to be gone now. Arthur is already pulling on his shirt and collecting his things.

 

“I’m gonna go, Gail.”

 

She’s sitting up in the bed, leaning back on a hand, watching him dress.

 

“Okay, Arthur.”

 

He leans down, over John who is still knelt and crumpled at her feet on the floor, and kisses her softly.

 

“It’s been good, I guess.”

 

“Yeah,” she answers back. It’s almost wistful.

 

Then, he’s gone.

 

Abigail stands, then helps John up off the floor. There’s spend all over him - stuck in his hair, on his shirt, in his pants. She undresses him with calm fingers, and they walk over to the basin together. She wipes him, soft and slow, with a cloth until he is at least somewhat clean. Only then does she clean herself.

 

John feels weak-kneed and weak-minded. He doesn’t want the first word. Abigail takes it without being prompted.

  

“I started it, with him.” It’s an answer to an unasked question.

 

“Of course you did. I ain’t an idiot. I can’t exactly see Arthur tryin’ it with you while I was gone. I dunno if I’ve ever seen him try it with anyone. You, on the other hand…” He trails off, and smiles a little.

 

“And no shit we’ve been fuckin’, John.” She’s speaking softly. “Made me so mad that day, you in _my_ tent, askin’ me what’s 'goin’ on with me and Morgan.' What the fuck do you think, him coming into my tent at night like that?”

 

“I wanted to hear you say it, I guess.”

 

“Well now you seen it, ain’t that better?” He doesn’t answer. “Askin’ me that… the nerve. As if you had any right to be upset about it.”

 

“I know I don’t, Abby.” He smiles at her, and she grabs at his chin gently.

 

“And he ain’t never finished inside me. Don’t you worry.” Again, she answers his question before he can ask it. “That was just a bit of fun.”

 

“Fun, huh?” He laughs a little, and she joins in.

 

They drift back to the bed together, hand in hand. Abigail climbs under the covers, but John hesitates.

 

“Come on, John.” It’s permission. He climbs in next to her, relishes slipping an arm around her waist.

 

“We decided,” she flips around in bed to face him and swallows, “me and Arthur decided that he won’t be comin’ round again.”

 

Even as John is relieved, he feels a pang of hollow disappointment somewhere behind his heart.

 

“Okay, Abigail.”

 

He wants to stay awake, wants to ask her all sorts of questions while she’s feeling charitable, maybe ask for some forgiveness as well, but he’s so tired, and the thin mattress is so much softer than the ground, that he falls asleep almost immediately while Abigail hums a tune and scratches his scalp.

 

The next night, John doesn’t sleep outside the tent - Abigail ushers him inside with Jack in her arms.

 

He sleeps on the ground, next to her cot, but still. To John, it’s progress.

**Author's Note:**

> This nastiness is mostly due to @Sad Cowboy Malone. If you haven't read his Charthur stuff here, git on it, boah.


End file.
